❝SHE'S GOT A SICKNESS, THAT ONE. IT'S IN HER BLOOD. SCARY TO THINK WHAT SHE'LL BE LIKE WHEN SHE'S FULL GROWN. IF THE GODS ARE GOOD, SHE'LL DIE BEFORE THAT.❞
In the North, there are whispers of a cruel and sickly girl lurking in the Dreadfort. Her sk...
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THE BELLS RANG from dawn until dusk, filling the courtyard with its brassy, sorrowful song of mourning.
Gods forgive me, thought Maester Uthor as he listened from the balcony outside his chambers. I have failed them both, those sweet children whom I've tutored and counseled, nurtured and loved since they were babes. The young lord Domeric, who showed such promise, was taken far before his time, and his dear sister was straying further and further from the path the gods had laid for her. I mustn't let her go. For her good mother's sake, I mustn't let her go. The old man descended his tower and crossed the courtyard.
The funeral procession had begun its slow march toward the crypts. Six bright torches floated through the mist, and somewhere a woman was singing a ceremonial hymn. When their paths crossed, the maester stopped and let the procession pass, bowing his head in respect. Creighton Redfort, his face long and somber, was among those carrying their bier upon which the young lord lay. Lady Bolton followed behind, leaning on her younger sister, the widow Barbrey Dustin, for support. She wore a shroud of black lace and carried a single white flower to lay before her son's tomb.
His heart ached for the mother and all her lost children, and it saddened him to see that her daughter — her only living child — was not standing by her side. Oh, curse your pride, child. Now is the time to grieve with your family, not harbor old grudges. He carried on with a frustrated sigh and went to the great hall.
Dance-for-Me and his men were guarding the heavy ironwood doors. From whom, exactly, Maester Uthor couldn't say. It seemed everyone was now the little lady's enemy. But the old man would not be deterred. He climbed the stairs and commanded the guardsmen to let him pass.
"M'lady desires to mourn in peace," said Damon from the step below as he lazily picked at his nails with his dagger. "Surely, you understand." His blond hair was wet and slicked back, but a single strand fell into his blue eyes as smiled at the maester. His was the only smiling face among the bunch, yet it brought the old man little comfort.
"Please, I must insist," the maester said. "It's urgent. The girl should be with her family, not locked in some smoky hall by herself."
"She's not by herself. We're keeping her company, aren't we, boys?"
All his men chuckled, and Sour Alyn grinned with yellow, rotten teeth.
The maester braced himself. "Enough of this nonsense. I - I - I won't stand for it, I won't." He pushed through them and reached for the door. The guardsman closed in around him. Grunt caught him by the arm, and Sour Alyn had come up behind him, swift and silent. The maester glared at them both. "What do you think you are doing? Step aside, I must see her!"
"Oh, let him in," the little lady called from inside. "He'll never leave, otherwise."
Dance-for-Me leaned back against the stone. "You heard her, boys. Let the good maester pass."
